


Sunlight over me (no matter what I do)

by BuddyBuddyPalBuddy



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Death, Dissociation, Dream Smp, Emotional Roller Coaster, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Internal Conflict, Smoking, War, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuddyBuddyPalBuddy/pseuds/BuddyBuddyPalBuddy
Summary: They stood in a grey stone tower, staring down at the world. War has come to Manburg, and Schlatt knows it’s not his fault, it can’t be.Schlatt’s perspective of the War for L’Manburg.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, No Romantic Relationships - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 70





	Sunlight over me (no matter what I do)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song The Shrine (An Argument) by Fleet Foxes.

Dream gave him black armor that glistened in the moonlight. Schlatt, for as strong as he was, swayed under the weight. The heat. Dream’s words sounded funny, as if he was speaking to him through water, form shifting like a verdant mirage. They stood in a grey stone tower, staring down at the world. Schlatt leaned against the balcony. The sun slowly inched up over the horizon, golden beams burning his eyes. Manburg sprawled out below them in all of its glory, the podium still decorated for the festival. Birds chirped and called for their mates, flapping from tree to tree. The air smelled fresh and cold, a gentle breeze carrying the smell of the sea. It would be a beautiful day, an even more beautiful night once the war was over. Schlatt sighed.

They wanted him to fight, didn’t they? Even though he had everything to lose. Wait, he didn’t. He’d already lost everyone, except for Fundy and Manburg. Now that was his everything, all he had to live and die for. How lonely. But still, he would fight. He was big and strong and so was his heart, and everything would be fixed soon. Schlatt reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask. He drank slowly. It did nothing to satiate his thirst. If anything, the burn of the alcohol made him feel thirstier than he’d ever been before. His mouth opened, then he shut it hard enough to make his tongue bleed. Quackity’s name died on his lips. His tongue throbbed from the pain, but it was worth it to keep that name out of his mouth. He didn’t need a weakling around him. He never needed anyone. He could win wars with the smallest gestures, he could topple towers with his whiskey scented breath. The rapid pounding of his heart was a war drum. He took another swig, washing away the iron taste of blood.

Quackity had had the audacity to look at him with tears in his eyes before scampering away. The White House was ugly as shit and deserved to be taken down, so something beautiful could grow in its place. But Quackity just couldn’t understand that. They fought. Schlatt didn’t remember what he said, just that Quackity shot him and left in fear. Quackity was a deer. A deer. His darling little fawn. Deer. With big black eyes and terror coursing through his veins. And Schlatt was a wolf, a predator, an emperor. He was stronger than everyone. Cowards, all of them.

“All of you are fucking cowards.” He muttered. Dream turned his head, giving him a masked glare. Schlatt flipped him off, and laughed. He slumped against the tower wall, metal clanging against stone. No knives would be put into his back. Not tonight. Not by a deer or a man in a box or anyone else. 

Dream wouldn’t talk to him. They weren’t friends, they didn’t even trust one another, but the end justified the means. They could at least agree on that. If Dream was his second in command, they’d at least get shit done. But when he and Quackity worked together…

It was good at first. Quackity was easy to sway to his side with a simple talk. They drank wine before going to bed, a glass for each of them, and Schlatt would always pick on Quackity for stirring a bit of honey to negate the bitterness. Things felt less foggy back then, and he could spend a whole day without drink. Then Quackity wanted them to marry. Quackity wanted so much, but couldn’t read the room for shit, couldn’t see what needed to be done for Manburg to prosper. He never knew what was needed. Soon a glass for each of them turned to half a glass for Quackity and three for himself. After Quackity left, three glasses turned into downing close to the entire bottle before collapsing into bed, cold and alone. His room was filled with empty bottles.

An arrow flew at the tower. It impaled itself in the stone. He didn’t even flinch. The people around him erupted into action, knocking arrows and shouting about holding the tower. It needed to be held. He took his helmet off, sweat dripping down his face. He ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. A matted portion right by the base of his left horn stopped his fingers in their tracks. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bathed or combed his hair. Surely his horns would look horrid, too, crusted with dirt, and his goat like ears were probably matted, too. He laughed quietly, wiping the sweat off his face. 

God it was so fucking hot. The sun was so gold, so glorious, and hung heavily in the sky. It felt like an omen. A swarm of people ran to the tower all wearing the same armor, chest plates and helms that made them look like a flock of black flies. He took a drink from his flask, fire burning his throat. He couldn’t remember what the hell he’d put in it. Alcohol, and some of his other favorite things. 

Dream grabbed his arm. It hurt. He shouted something that Schlatt couldn’t hear. But Dream looked away and jumped from the tower. Of course, Schlatt followed, stumbling over the balcony, toppling head first down, down, down, his body landing with a splash in a bit of water. The sun was high in the sky— where had that time gone? He crawled from the murky water, kicking his boots off into the fields. They landed in a half grown patch of wheat, resting in the rich farmland. He felt so hot. The sun, the sun, the glorious sun, pummeled him with heat. 

Lucky for him, his grip on his flask didn’t waver when he fell. He guzzled from the flask and staggered to his feet, shoes squelching in the black earth. The people shot at one another. Arrows hailed down from the high balcony of the tower. Some went up, too. Fireworks crackled, thick, sulfuric smoke filling the air. He walked away from the tower. 

This wasn’t his fault, it couldn’t be. It was Wilbur’s. Fucking Wilbur, that sanctimonious bastard with all of his grand ideas of victory and freedom. Just because he was pretty and eloquent didn’t mean he was a good leader. Wilbur was a warmonger, an idealist. So the logical thing was to banish him. Yet he still decided to start a war against him, his presidency, the peace he had made. All he wanted was to bring peace, where had the peace gone? He’d done all he could. Gotten rid of all the evil bits, all the useless bits. The weak parts. He’d scorched the land down to the soil, new things would grow. 

Fireworks crackled nearby. He unclasped his netherite leggings, letting them fall to the ground. His chestplate went too, both of them striking the earth with a satisfying thud. Someone shot at someone. Someone was screaming. Every firework blast made his head throb, the shouts piercing his head like a knife. He drank again, stumbling forward. The grass looked so green. Manburg looked so beautiful, decorated for the festival. He closed his eyes. Tubbo had so much potential, it’s a shame he couldn’t see past the short term. It’s a real shame.

When he opened them, he was standing before the ocean, sinking into the sand. He stared out at it. The air smelled like salt. Waves pounded the beach, as if the tide was at war with the earth he stood on. But the waves had made the beach, and the earth was nothing but a place for him to mold as he pleased. A high pitched noise came from nowhere. He kicked at the sand. He took a swig from his flask, the alcohol sloshing around until the last drop went down his throat. He dipped it into the raging waves. Water sounded so nice, especially the ocean, glimmering like diamonds in the bright sunlight. He’d been drinking. And yet, he still felt so, so thirsty. With one hand he tilted it up into his mouth, with the other he loosened his tie. The sharp taste of salty water hit his tongue, and he gagged at how cold it was. Still, he swallowed. God. Where was he? 

Manburg. His Manburg. With raging oceans and deep forests and supple farmland. He had made it so, so wonderful. Washed the bugs from the nation, but now they returned like a swarm of locusts. His heart felt like it would explode. Everything around him was so blurry and too bright, the heat was driving him crazy. It had to be the sun. So thirsty. The salt tasted bad. Bad things were fine, they made you stronger. And if there was one thing he was, it was strong. He had to be, or they’d eat him alive, and leave his bones to bleach in the sun.

The world around him felt blurry, the world shifting. Like a mirage, almost, ears ringing. He stumbled over something. Darkness fell around him. 

When he opened his eyes, there was a wooden floor beneath him, and more bottles. He finally was free of the horrible sun, and surrounded by bottles of drink, a perfect combination. Looking around, he noticed the dirt walls and the hole in the ceiling, and realized that he was in his little hideout, where he would go in the day to hide. Of course, there was alcohol. He poured the salt water onto the floor, picked up a bottle, and sipped from it. Whatever was in the bottle was strong, almost tasting like a protein shake, nice and refreshing. Wonderful. He drank. Maybe after all this blew over, he and Fundy could work out together. And he could work things out with Quackity. It would all be fine. Of course they’d have to spruce Manburg up a little, take down the ragged, unorganized buildings, and build from the ground up. Then he and Quackity would be married in winter and be one another’s warmth. Come springtime, they’d watch Manburg grow. Together. 

No, that wouldn’t happen. He was weak. Quackity was weak. 

He gracelessly lowered himself to the floor, legs shaking like a baby deers. Once sitting, he pulled out a lighter and a cigar. He flicked his thumb on the lighter once, twice, then took a long draw of the cigar. It did nothing to calm him. Someone poked their head in. Then they ran away. He took another draw of his cigar, hands shaking. Then, he drank again. Draw, drink. Draw, drink. His heart banged against his ribcage. His heart was a war drum. Once all this was done it would all be back to normal. There would be peace, he could rest, and be at peace. He’d go back to being president. And everyone would kneel to him and he’d celebrate be happy even without the alcohol and the drugs.

Happiness. Peace.

A flood of noise rushed into the place he was hidden. He tilted the bottle up, licking around the glass rim before letting it pour down his throat, trying to chase the high. It burned his throat like bile, but had a sickly sweet aftertaste.

Someone touched him.

“Schlatt, what are you doing?” A warm, familiar voice said. Schlatt frowned, squinting at the source of the noise.

“...Wilbur?” He slurred. He looked around, eyes finally focusing on Wilbur. His coat and scarf were tattered, stained with soot and blood. So many people were around him. Dream, Tommy, Purpled, Tubbo, and Wilbur. Everything smelled like gunpowder and iron. They stared at him. Their eyes burned like the sun. He chuckled.

“What are you doing?” Wilbur repeated. Schlatt looked around frantically, a smile blossoming on his face.

“What the hell? Is this a surprise birthday party?”

He knew it wasn’t. As if anyone would care enough to celebrate his life. He took another long drink of whatever was in the bottle, emptying it, and picking another one up from the floor. It burned his throat in a wonderful, familiar way. Wilbur shouted at him, but that damn high pitched noise made his words incomprehensible, making his ears twitch frantically. The drink was good at least. A protein shake, maybe. With creatine, probably, something that would make him big and strong, untouchable, unhurtable, hammer curls, his head spun. He tried to catch his breath, taking deep, even breaths. He counted, trying to calm himself. The voices around him picked up but he couldn’t discern one from another, it was simply a cacophony, a horrifying sight, and he couldn’t breathe.

People around him talked. He finished the bottle, and dropped it, then took another bottle from within his jacket. He tilted his head back, taking a long drink. Up, in the sky, no, standing on the roof— 

“Fundy?” He screamed, “Fundy what are you doing here!?!”

“Schlatt, are you fucking drunk,” Fundy deadpanned. 

“Fundy are you— “

Fundy dropped down from the roof, right in front of him. His fur was matted in places with blood and dirt. He’d been fighting. The one person he thought he could trust. Staring at him. Big black blank eyes. Like a deer, a deer in fox clothes. 

“You BITCH!” Schlatt howled. He lashed out at Fundy with the bottle. Who’d lift with him now? Fucking bitch. 

“Schlatt, you fucked up the country, you fucked up everything! You had a dream and I followed it and you brought it downhill.”

Schlatt drank. He didn’t want to hear it. His heart wouldn’t stop violently hammering against his ribs. His arm hurt.

“You ruined it!” Fundy continued, “you ruined everything we had!”

Maybe the shake had something in it. Was he talking? His skin felt wrong. Too hot. The sun crawled through the windows. It crept through the ceiling. 

“I thought you were something,” Fundy shouted. 

Schlatt glared at him.

“Oh my fucking God. Yeah, I am something, I’m what you’re not, Fundy.”

His cigar had burnt out. He needed another puff to stop his hands from shaking. With quivering hands, he flicked the lighter. No flame came out. He’d need more butane. He flicked the lighter again, and a tiny flame lept out. There we go. He lit his cigar, taking a long, deep pull. The world around him was spinning, like a little carnival ride. 

“What am I not?” Fundy barked. Schlatt breathed acrid, grey smoke into his face. 

“I’m a man,” Schlatt hissed. 

Everyone gasped. Wilbur went up in his face. His mouth moved, but the words that came out didn’t make sense. He slammed the bottle into Wilbur, over and over, until Fundy came back into his eyesight. He broke the bottle against his armor. So many people were shouting. Someone had a sword— he had a sword? Rage took over. He slashed it at Fundy. Chased him. Then stumbled back. If he was speaking, he couldn’t tell. Thought and words had all blended into one. What the hell was in the drink?

He didn’t care. He grabbed a new bottle and chugged. 

Something sharp pressed against his forehead. His eyes fluttered, before finally focusing onto whoever was in front of him. Blond hair, blue eyes— Tubbo? No. Tommy. Tommy held a crossbow up to his head. A twinge of fear made his heart lurch in his chest. Was he going to kill him? Don’t, don’t. He stared at the crossbow. 

“Victory or death,” Wilbur exclaimed, so proud. He would’ve been a shit President. Schlatt couldn’t help but give a small chuckle. This was his country. His. Nobody else knew his plans to rebuild, and they’d all fail. They weren’t as strong as him. 

“You know if I die, this country goes down with me.”

“No it doesn’t, Schlatt,” Tommy said, voice calm and level. Schlatt laughed, and drank. He swallowed down the liquid. Right there in front of him stood Quackity. Sunglasses hid those doe eyes from him. His heart felt like a clenched fist. It hurt. 

“I had everybody turn on me,” he said darkly, “in my time of need, everybody left. You left.”

His fist connected with Quackity’s face before he could even think. Quackity stumbled back. More words stumbled from his mouth, but he didn’t know what he was saying anymore. He wanted to collapse. He wanted to not have to be strong anymore. His breath caught in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. 

“You made a mistake, you made the biggest mistake by not taking me—“

“You’re pathetic, Schlatt!” Fundy crowed.

“This is your fault and your fault only,” someone else said. They weren’t wrong. He’d fucked up over and over. 

Schlatt just mumbled and cried out whatever he thought. His body was separated from his mind. He didn’t know what he was saying. Bad, bad, everything was bad and doomed, oh god.

Tommy pressed the crossbow against his chest. He coughed. The breath left his body. Oh god they were going to kill him. Under the bright sun. The sun. People were talking. Too many people were talking, voices mingling with the ringing in his ears, a horrifying symphony. He wheezed. Something was burning. Toast? Wilbur looked at him. Said something. He drank. That had to help. Nothing could help. Something was happening.

He didn’t feel good. One last puff. Had to help. Had to get him stronger. Didn’t feel good. His heartbeat crescendoed. So many people were looking at him but they wouldn’t help, they wouldn’t help, were they just going to watch? It hurt, it hurt so bad, why wouldn’t they help him? 

The pain in his chest made him crumble. His head hit the hard floor. A weak gasp escaped him, and his empty eyes gazed up through the hole in the ceiling.

The sun stared down at his body.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @palpalbuddypal


End file.
